by Amy Faye
Then he pushed himself back from the desk and stood up.
If someone was coming after him specifically, then he needed to get the problem solved. They seemed to think that cutting the head off the snake was the way to get at the Knights Templar. They were probably right. It was the worst-case scenario, as far as Blake was concerned. Getting ousted, or getting himself killed, effectively meant that they were going to be relying on Uncle Sam to get things done.
There was no shame in working for the Army. Or the Marines. Or even the Air Force, God bless them, even if they were relying on the Army to make sure that there was nobody blowing them out of the sky with cheap-as-free shoulder-mounted SAMs.
But the reality was, the American taxpayer didn’t shell out enough to really pay the boys getting down in the dirt what they deserved. Which was precisely why the Knights Templar did what they did. They did everything that Uncle Sam needed done, and they did it for half the cost while paying their boys twice as much.
But that was because they were being led right. The minute that you cut the head off the snake, the boys might still be there, but the costs start spiraling, or the pay starts dwindling, and it would only be a matter of time.
He looked down at the desk. It was covered in stacks of paper. He’d been gone for a day and a half, and he’d accumulated this much paperwork. At what point had he stopped fighting wars and started fighting the national ink reserves?
He let out a long, low breath, settled down into his too-comfortable chair, and leaned forward over his desk. He pulled the stapled packet from the top of his inbox and started reading. Like it or not, there was work to be done before he could call it a day. This was his least favorite part of the job. But it was his responsibility.
Five
Lara sat in her room. Eventually, she’d have to leave. But for a little while, she had her savings. Practically speaking, it was a number in her bank, and it was only going to count down from this point on. Unprofessionalism isn’t the sort of thing that you want to have on your references.
And then she would have to leave the place off her resume, which meant explaining what she’d been doing for the past three months. Or she could bite the bullet and list the place, hoping that they don’t call and find out why she was fired. The circumstances were less damning than they really seemed, but that didn’t seem to make all that much difference to her boss. Which was bullshit, but it was fair, at the same time.
Lara shook her head. No, she’d figure something out. Eventually, she’d make another dollar. She just wasn’t ready. Not today, anyways. She was tired. Her throat was sore. And after a month, she was starting to think that it wasn’t going to get better. Maybe she was just stuck like this. She could sleep all day when she was homeless, right?
Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, which meant that it was probably nobody that she knew. And if it was nobody she knew, then she didn’t want to talk to them. She thumbed the circle over to the red side and laid her head back down on the pillow. If she tried, maybe she could go for hour fifteen of sleep. Maybe then she’d feel better. Right?
The phone beeped. Whoever it was, they’d left a message. Lara looked at it tiredly. No. She wasn’t interested. Stop calling. Thanks. She wasn’t going to buy any vinyl siding, she was happy with her cable provider, and she didn’t need to think about going on a cruise.
Unless they needed crew members for the cruise, and they were willing to overlook a little post-terrorist indiscretion. Then she was all on-board the cruise idea. It was an idea. But generally telemarketers weren’t connected to hiring agencies. And she knew that the second she answered the phone, it would be a loud, blaring horn in her ear before announcing happily that cruises were great and she should take one today.
Well, Mr. Cruise-liner, I don’t have the money. She let out a long, low breath. But she didn’t need to lose her temper over it. If it was a telemarketer, then it didn’t matter. She’d just have that “You Have A Voicemail” notification until she deleted it. So she’d be better off doing it sooner rather than later.
Lara clicked the voicemail button. It asked her for a password. She tapped it in slowly. 1-4-4-5. It had been the four numbers in her WiFi password at her parents’ house. A house she was probably going to have to go back to when she had no money and was destitute. Or she could always call Greg. He was always looking for a little side-trim. No doubt he’d take her in. As a special favor, of course. One that would carry certain expectations with it.
The mechanical voice on the other end of the line read out slowly. “You have. One. New voice message.”
An instant passed before a woman’s voice came through. It sounded surprisingly natural for a telemarketer. They usually used one-word recordings, so it sounded off. Or their sound quality was bad. Or anything, really. You could tell machines, and the phone banks all had pretty bad attempts at imitating an American accent. This woman didn’t have any of those problems.
“Miss Winters, I’m calling with a job offer? It’s my understanding that you’ve recently become unemployed, and I’m reaching out on behalf of the CEO of Knights Templar International Security. Please get in touch with me at your earliest convenience.” Then she left a phone number.
Knights Templar? Who? Lara let out a long breath. It was a job offer, but what was the expectation or thought? So she did what any person would do. She looked them up on her phone. Right at the top was all the information she could possibly need.
It had a picture of a stylized chess knight in profile, next to the words “Knights Templar” written in fancy text.
Then it had the basic information that anyone would need on the place. Private company. Private security services contractor. Founded in 2002, in Norman, Oklahoma. Founder was a man named Blake Prince. Headquarters were in Oklahoma City. Worldwide service, still headed by Prince. There was a link to the website.
Blake Prince was highlighted in blue. She clicked it, and it opened up a new page. As usual, the key information was at the top. A photo of a handsome man, broad jaw, giving a serious expression as he walked across the tarmac somewhere, next to a couple of men who had been cropped out of the image.
Born in 1970, which made him 46. His home was in Oklahoma City. He was an American, and he was educated at West Point and Yale. Never married, no children, parents Maria and Todd Prince.
There was one key piece of information that it didn’t mention, though. A little tidbit that Lara would have loved to have known, if they could have mentioned it, which was also known for fucking Lara Winters and losing her job after averting a terrorist attack.
She pinched her lips. So it wasn’t a job per se. It was a booty call, one that she might get paid for. It wasn’t the sort of situation that she wanted to walk into. But paying her was the least he could do after losing her job for her. And after three weeks of unemployment, her rent payments weren’t going to be coming from anywhere else.
So she did what she had to do. The only option that really made any sense to her. She let out a long, low breath, and called the number back. It picked up on the second ring, and a woman’s voice answered, polite and smooth.
“Clara DeVos.”
“I’m, uh… returning a call? About twenty minutes ago you, uh…”
“Miss Winters?”
“Yes,” Lara answered. The relief at being understood slipped into her voice more than she’d intended for it to.
“You’re not busy, are you?”
“No.”
“We’d like to fly you out to Oklahoma for a meeting. Is there any time that would be possible?”
“Fly me out?”
“That’s right. As in, entirely paid by company funds, if that’s a concern.”
“That’s very gracious of you.”
“Of course. Now, we can get you on a plane within a few hours, but if you need more time, then just let us know when will be convenient, and we’ll hire you a car and have tickets waiting for you at the convenience desk, unless you’re not interested.�
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“No,” Lara said, reaching for a pen and paper. “I’m interested. I don’t know if I understand what’s going on, though.”
“Well, the specific details are something that we would discuss with you at the time.”
“But can you give me some kind of idea what I’m looking at?”
“We’re putting together a flight crew, and your name came up.”
“Would I be working with Mr. Prince?”
“You would be working around him,” the voice responded. “But you wouldn’t be involved in any active security details, if that’s your concern.”
Lara found herself drifting. Several seconds passed before she caught herself, and finally answered. “Oh, no. Of course. Uh… I guess my schedule is clear.”
“Then there should be a ride outside your apartment in ten. You’re still living on Lilley?”
“How did you get my address? My phone number?”
“Have a good day, Miss Winters. Someone will be waiting for you in Oklahoma. I hope you have a pleasant flight.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Lara set the phone down. She didn’t know how long she was supposed to be out of town, but she didn’t have anything packed, and ten minutes was a damn short time. She jumped up. Change into something for flying, and bring something professional. That was the only thing to do, at that point. That, and hurry while she was at it.
Six
Blake sat down. The Cessna had cost him nearly six million dollars. And that was a friends-and-families price. Precisely how many gunshot wounds could that have healed? How many days could a purple-heart stay in the hospital to heal up for fourteen million dollars? He scowled. It was a waste of money, and not one that he was remotely happy about.
The interior was comfortable, and exactly as luxurious as he’d wanted. It was a business plane. Not for war, in other words. Which necessitated a crew of some kind. And of course, he’d gotten that poor girl fired, as well. So it was all perfectly understandable.
She walked up beside him with a tray in her hands.
“Your drink, sir?”
“Thank you,” he said, and took the glass. He raised it gently to her. “Everything meeting with your expectations, Miss Winters?”
“Yes sir,” she answered, and walked past him. Blake watched her step up through the gap into the cockpit. She leaned down and said something. The pilot said something back. Then she turned. He didn’t hide that he watched her coming back.
“We’ll be setting off in just a moment,” she told him. Blake swiveled the seat to watch her walk away. She was startlingly cold to him, all things considered. It wasn’t as if he’d misled her. It was his fault as much as it was hers that she’d lost her job. They were both in that bathroom.
But the idea that she should be angry with him? Well… whatever. He’d made good with her. The plane started to move. The pilot spoke, presumably to the control tower. Then the plane started to move faster, faster, faster. The nose lifted, and then they were in the air.
They were scheduled to land in O’Hare in just a few short hours. But the trans-Atlantic flight was going to be a problem, which meant that they needed as much fuel as possible. Of course, his pilot didn’t seem particularly concerned. Just save fuel on the way, and he didn’t seem to think it would be much trouble.
Blake laid back. The plane leveled out. He undid his seatbelt and immediately stood.
“You ever flown on one of these boats?” He turned to Lara. She shrugged.
“It’s smaller than what I’m used to.”
“Is that supposed to be a comment on something?”
Her face went red.
“Sir,” she answered.
“I hope you’re not still angry with me.”
“No, sir,” she said. Her mouth said that, but her face said something else. Well, either way didn’t matter, as long as he did what he had to do.
“Then let me ask you this. You might know. How long do you think until we can be back up in the air?”
“What’s the flight plan say?”
Blake let out a breath, reached down and picked up his drink. He poured it down his throat. It burned, but not like the look she gave him. More pleasant, too.
“Two hours.”
“Then I assume two hours. Sir.”
“Yeah, I thought you might say that. Alright. Well, I just thought I’d make conversation.”
“Very kind of you, sir.” Lara looked like she was ready to run down the aisle and claw his throat out. Blake smiled at her. A smile was the way to do anything.
He walked back, filled his own glass, and then settled back down into his seat. It was going to be a very, very long flight, and he was going to spend as much of it as possible asleep. Then, if he were lucky, he might be able to get something going with it. If he were lucky.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked down. They were over land.
“Where are we at?”
Lara, sitting deep in a heavily-cushioned seat across the aisle from him, stirred as if she’d been sleeping, herself.
“Uh… we should be landing in Berlin, I think.”
“I’ll go ask the pilot,” Blake said. “Just to get specifics.”
“No, I can do it.”
“Don’t fuss over it. It’ll be good to stretch anyways.”
She didn’t fuss over it. Apparently, at least in theory, she was capable of learning from her mistakes and not picking too many fights. He liked that in a woman. He liked it in men, too, but most of the men he dealt with were military. They had very specific ways of approaching problems. They were more or less the same as his own ways, minus the business experience.
He leaned into the cockpit. There were two men. One was sleeping, and the other leaned back from the stick with his hands laced behind his head.
“How much further?”
“Another half-hour out of Paris,” the pilot said, covering the headset microphone with one hand. “Then we’ve got a 6-hour layover, and then we head out. Where are our clearance papers?”
Blake reached back and pulled open a closet, handed them over to the man. He scanned through them quickly, and then handed them back. “Just there?”
“Just here,” Blake confirmed. “Don’t worry about it, too much. I can’t imagine that we’ll get too much push-back, but if there’s trouble, just send them my way.”
“Yes sir,” the pilot answered. Then he stiffened in his seat and sat upright, watching out the front window.
“As you were,” Blake said, and then moved back. He could already see the man leaning back away from the controls and laying back in his seat as he turned away.
Lara looked up at him.
“Thirty minutes, give or take. Then six hours, then we hit Syria.”
“And as for me?”
“You’ll be staying at a hotel in the area. I’ve got people ensuring a place to stay for you as we speak.”
“Not the pilots?”
“They’ll bunk with us. The Temple Mount is our outpost in the Middle East, and we’ve got very reasonable amenities for our people, when they’re on-base.”
“Why am I not staying there?”
“I didn’t think you’d find it very comfortable. It’s a fairly rigorous, strict life. You’re not military personnel. Nor are you really ex-military. So I figured we’d base you someplace else.”
“How thoughtful.” Then she leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and Blake walked back to the bar. He pulled a glass from the cabinet, poured two fingers, and walked back to his seat.
There were six seats, in total. Plus a jump seat in the back, which he expected never to be very widely used. Frankly, the odds of all six seats being filled at once, ever, were slim. As soon as this trouble was over, he’d go back to flying commercial. It was cheaper. And he might be able to recoup some of the costs of the plane. Maybe. If he were lucky.
By the time that he set down in Syria, though, he was starting to reconsider. Just a bit. It was nice, not
having to be packed in among everyone else. Quiet. Peaceful. And extremely expensive, he knew. It was cheaper to fly commercial.
Ray was waiting for him when he stepped onto the tarmac, dressed like a soldier. Blake felt out of place in his suit. But they had work to do, and it wasn’t time to worry about fashion. Not now. Not with men dying.
Seven
“I’m just coming in for a second,” Lara said. She could feel the alcohol going to her head. It hadn’t been much. Not enough. But it was enough to make the excuse. After nearly fourteen hours with Blake Prince, an excuse to come into his room was exactly what she needed. The only thing she really needed.
“Of course,” Blake answered. As if it were perfectly natural. As if he didn’t misunderstand in the least bit. But she knew that he did.
She wasn’t going to sleep with him. She wasn’t. It was that simple. Sure, she might have wanted to, and sure, she might have been thinking it, and sure, it might look like she was about to do exactly that. But it was a misleading look.
Lara was willing to be a little misleading. After all, she’d begun to suspect something about Blake Prince. Something that he, no doubt, would never admit, not even to himself. He was a softy. He paid homage to the idea that he was a big, tough man, and no doubt he was tough, and he certainly was big.
But he fancied himself a gentleman, and he acted the part quite well. So she’d get a little taste of him again, let him kiss her, tease him a little, and then she’d decide that she was making a mistake, and she’d back right off.
And he’d be a gentleman, and he would stop. Because that was what gentlemen did. He stepped inside and stripped off his jacket. There was something vaguely ritualistic about it. He’d changed into different clothes. Up to that point, I’d seen him in suits. He rarely wore a tie, and the baseball cap and glasses made it hard to seem anything close to formal.
But even still, something seemed off about it. Wearing a pair of loose-fitting fatigue pants and a chore coat, though, the ensemble seemed complete. The hat and glasses barely stood out. He smiled at her. His tee shirt showed off every line of his tightly-knit body.
